


The Business Card Part Three

by missmollyetc



Series: Cardverse [6]
Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Minor Violence, Multi, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-13
Updated: 2010-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One kick to get in the door, two seconds to step inside, three bullets to the chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Business Card Part Three

Agents Sands, Potter, and Valdez were absolute fucking scum. It was the only logical explanation for their assignment to Don's shooting inquiry. Unfortunately, they were running the show, so the only positive outcome for Don in speaking his mind would be a certain personal satisfaction. Some people might have called that petty. Don was pretty damn sure they'd never met Agents Sands, Potter, and Valdez.

Every other sentence was an insinuation, the rest were out and out accusations. Poking and prodding at him until he could feel the blood pooling under his skin, darkening to bruises. They'd already talked to Terry. They'd interviewed the assault team's leader, and now they'd circled around to Don.

Agent Sands rested his folded hands on the table and leaned forward. He'd been playing 'good cop' for the last twenty minutes. The act had been thin since the first five.

"I know you've gone over this about a billion times before, Agent Eppes, but it would really help us--"

"Review your actions from the time you left the command vehicle until the incident of the shooting," Agent (Bad Cop) Valdez broke in.

His eyes flicked downward to the little plastic pouch at the edge of the table in front of Don. The pouch contained the fragments of three bullets. They seemed to have some kind of magnetic pull that sucked all the warmth out of the room.

Don straightened in his chair, and fought down the wave of irritation to keep his voice clear. They had his reports. They had _all_ the reports, even a few notes scrawled in Charlie's handwriting on loose-leaf paper. The only possible reason for this kind of tribunal was a fishing expedition. Even if this was procedure, the tone the board had adopted did not fill Don with confidence. Someone wanted him to screw up and admit to something he hadn't done.

"Before entering the house, we'd sighted all four suspects--" Don began.

"_Four_ suspects? You had no idea about the fifth man inside the house?" Potter looked up from her papers. She'd been the original good cop until Sands fell behind on the note-taking.

Don nodded, shifting gears without blinking. Never let the enemy see you blink.

"From the report given to us by the mother, we knew that Ballard had had an accomplice in the kidnapping, but no other indications showed that the man, later discovered to be Jason Kirkpatrick, was anything more than a temporary hire. Once agents placed all the _known_ suspects in the same area, I made the decision to enter the house."

"And put yourself in point position," Sands said. His ill-fitting suit exposed a good two inches of shirt cuff when he shifted in his seat.

Don nodded. "Yes, as the operation chief, I thought--"

"You'd grab some glory for yourself?" Valdez asked. He tapped a thick finger on top of an open file. "Says here you went right from the body to standing down a hostage situation. Quite the hero, aren't you?"

Don ground his teeth, breathing hard for a moment. Muzzle flash, three distinct bursts, appeared in his vision, but he spoke through it, pleased when his voice sounded as in control as he didn't feel.

"No, Agent Valdez, I did _not_ think that way. As team leader, I felt it was my duty to set an example of professionalism and dedication--"

Valdez brushed aside the rest of Don's sentence, and launched into a recitation of Terry's version of events, which Don had heard many times before. If the man ever let someone finish a thought, he must have counted it as a bad day. Don closed his mouth with a snap, and concentrated on controlling his breathing. Out of control behavior was a green light to more sessions with Dr. (You sure you won't call me Sam?) Weber.

Potter's pen scratched across the notepad in front of her. She'd been taking copious notes--Don had no idea what was so interesting--since Sands had taken over as Valdez's tag team partner. She was writing with one of those cheap ballpoints sold in packs of thirty for two bucks. Charlie went through a pack of those things a week.

Don swallowed heavily, and reflexively checked the corners of Potter's mouth for stains. He couldn't see any, but that didn't mean they hadn't been there. She could have washed recently, after all.

Charlie liked to take showers. He was very hygienic, got into all the corners--Don's throat tightened.

"Are we boring you, Agent Eppes?" Sands interrupted Don's train of thought.

Don snapped back to reality, grateful for the reprieve. "No, not at all, Agent Sands. I'm eager to continue," he said.

Sands nodded, not unkindly, but his sharp eyes didn't seem to miss Don's sudden flush. "Good, then would you please tell us what occurred when you and your team entered..."

 

***

 

Assistant Director Marlow's office was three floors and a world away from Don's own little corner of the universe. The space could have fit at least five agents, if one of them sat at an angle. Three chairs in front of the desk faced a large window and, on the opposite far walls stood two rows of wooden shelves, full of commendations and awards and, on one, an African Violet. The AD's desk was larger than Don and Terry's desks put together, and made of a rich dark wood. If Don leaned forward two degrees, he could see himself in the varnish.

Don did not lean forward.

He sat calmly, not fidgeting with his fingers, or tapping his feet (habits he'd discovered and ruthlessly crushed in sessions five through seven with Dr. Weber), while AD Marlow read through Don's personnel file. The board of inquiry had been forced to give Don the green light a week ago, but it was Weber's final report that could put the nail in his coffin if Marlow agreed with her findings. Not that whatever she dug up could hurt him, of course, since he'd been careful, but psychiatrists had their tricks.

"Agent Eppes, I want to tell you how impressed I've been with your work to date," AD Marlow said.

He closed the file in front of him, and looked Don in the eye. He was an older man in his mid-fifties, with bushy graying hair. For all that he reminded Don just a little of his father, the hard edge that sharpened AD Marlow's face warned him to take the interview very seriously.

Don sat up straighter, and resisted the urge to fix his tie. There was nothing wrong with his tie. Charlie had knotted it that morning.

"Thank you, sir," Don said. "I'm just doing my job."

"And I appreciate that," Marlow said. "I've looked over the files of your case, and the reports from your board of inquiry. They all show a man with a great future ahead of him in the FBI."

"Thank you, sir," Don said again.

He ignored the muzzle flash in front of his eyes with the ease of practice, and concentrated on what Marlow was saying to him. This was good, complimentary even. Things were going to finally get back to normal. Don felt a lessening of the pressure building up in his stomach.

"However, Dr. Weber reports that her sessions with you have been...less than constructive. She feels you have issues still to be worked out," Marlow said.

He looked him hard in the eyes, and Don did not look away. The pressure in his gut returned, churning with acid. He ground his teeth slightly, but nodded.

"I--can see where she might think that, sir," Don said. "And to some extent she might be right."

The interfering hag. How _dare_ she…do her job. Dr. Weber was simply accomplishing what she was hired for. Don could hardly fault her for that. Everyone was just…doing their jobs.

Marlow raised his eyebrows, and sat back in his chair. "Really," he said.

Don thought fast, very fast, to say the right thing. "Yes, sir. I mean…I shot a man, sir, and under the circumstances I--I believe it was the right thing to do. However, it's still something I'm going to have to live with, and I understand that. But it won't affect my job performance, sir. I'm ready to put this behind me and work."

He finished speaking, breathing calmly, refusing to let his mouth hang open to gulp the air he so desperately needed. It was more important to get back to work, to silence the whispers and Terry's damned pity. He rested his hands on his knees, and they were _not_ sweating.

Marlow brought his hands to his face, tapping his lower lip in thought. Don looked away, focusing on a point above Marlow's right shoulder. He tried projecting an aura of competence around him. Instead, he wound up rubbing the tips of his fingers together, and thinking about where those digits had been the night before.

Oh God, he needed to get back to work.

Marlow coughed, and Don jerked to attention. For a moment, Marlow simply looked at him, assessing his face and the way he sat while Don grew increasingly anxious and just as determined not to show it.

"It's a hard thing to kill a man," Marlow said, finally, with the ring of experience in his voice. "And harder still to live with it. Can I trust you in the field after this? Can I trust you with the lives of my other agents?"

Don nodded. "Yes sir. You can."

Terry was out in the field. David was out there. Charlie--Charlie…

AD Marlow stood and held out his hand. "Then I think you should get back to work, Agent Eppes."

Don got out of his chair and shook Marlow's hand. He felt lighter somehow, a smile curved his mouth as he let himself out of the office, leaving AD Marlow to his job so Don could go back to his. He punched the elevator button with a flourish, and practically bounced inside the carriage.

One floor down, Terry stepped into the elevator. Don clutched his hands behind his back and stole a quick look at the lighted numbers above the doors. This was the floor where he'd done his sessions with Dr. Weber.

"Hey," he said, glancing at her.

Terry was wearing blue again, a color she looked very good in, and her crepe blouse brought out the spark in her eyes. Her expression was friendly, but Don didn't like the way the corners of her mouth creased when she looked at him. His smile turned uncertain, and he avoided her gaze in favor of staring at the elevator doors.

"Where'd you come from?" she asked.

As if she didn't already know. Don rocked a little on his feet. Probably been talking to her friend Dr. Weber about him.

"AD Marlow's office, actually," he said, smiling stiffly.

Her expression turned serious. "How did it go?" she asked.

"Great! It went good, I'm…getting back to field work," he said.

Terry blinked rapidly, and her mouth opened a little. She coughed, and composed herself, but the damage had been done. She _had_ been talking to Weber. Don bit down on the inside of his cheek.

Or, maybe she knew. Maybe she knew about…him. She'd seen Charlie. She'd seen the pen hanging out of Charlie's mouth, and remembered their conversation and…

Don unclenched his fists and took a deep breath. That was stupid. Nobody knew, no one looked at two brothers and assumed they were…no one jumped to those kinds of conclusions.

He peeked out of the corner of his eye. Terry was obeying elevator etiquette and pretending he didn't exist, but every so often she looked his way. The elevator dinged on their floor, and he stepped out behind Terry into the empty outer corridor.

"Terry, listen…" He put his hand on her shoulder and released it immediately when she stiffened.

A cord knotted in his chest. Terry should never have been made to feel…like that because of him. She turned to face him, arms crossing under her breasts.

"I just…I just wanted to say…how sorry I am," he said. "I was out of line, _over_ the line really. I never--never wanted that for us. Between us."

He'd send flowers to her desk everyday for the next twenty years, if he thought it would help. Maybe slide the really plum cases her way, or…or anything. There had to be _something_ he could fix.

Her eyes, serious and detached, softened. She nodded her head and relaxed her stance, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. She was so beautiful.

"I understand why you did it," she said. "But I won't let it happen again."

"Thank you," he said. "I'm…I won't either. I was…I was wrong."

She nodded. "Yes, you were."

He looked down at his shoes, and back into her face. They stood awkwardly, where before there had only been friendship and mild flirtation. Something else good that Don had destroyed.

"And I'm glad you punched me," he said, breaking the silence.

Terry chuckled, glancing around them for non-existent listeners, and Don allowed himself to grin.

"You're turning out quite kinky, aren't you?" she asked. "Handcuffs, punching, what else are you into?"

He barked a laugh, and rubbed the back of his head. His hair was getting long again, it would be time for a haircut soon. "Yeah, well, just don't shop that around," he said.

"Our secret," she said. Terry pointed behind them to the forest of desks they called home. "Let's get back in the game, huh?"

Don followed her back to his desk and took a seat, turning to his inbox with a smile. He pulled out the topmost file in the stack, and flicked it open. Time for work, real work, the kind that took your whole attention. But first, a pen for note taking. He opened his desk drawer without looking, digging past the clumps of paperclips, and his fingers brushed hard metal.

He stopped, mindlessly staring at the file, while his fingers curved around the barrel of his gun, and clenched tight, his thumb pressing over the opening. He could feel the grease sinking into his hand, the weight of it bearing down on him.

This wasn't the gun he'd shot Kirkpatrick with. That had been longer, bigger, an assault rifle fit for breaking down doors and rushing a room full of combatants. This was his standard issue sidearm, worn for so long that he felt off kilter when he didn't have it holstered at his side. He hadn't been wearing it for awhile. Carrying a gun when he was only working in the office had seemed like overkill.

Now, he could start wearing it again. Slowly, he brought his hand out of the drawer, lifting out his gun, and setting it down in front of him. He hunched over, pretending to be reading the file while all the time his eyes couldn't leave the dark curves of the weapon on his desk.

 

***

 

Charlie was still in the apartment when Don finally walked in the door. He was sitting at the bar counter that separated the living room from the kitchen area, writing on a legal pad, surrounded by crumpled napkins, and two beat up notebooks Don recognized as his own. Occasionally, he would gnaw on the end of his pen before scribbling out another line of numbers.

Don shrugged off his jacket, and threw it on the counter. The jacket skittered across the surface and over Charlie's writing. Charlie jumped, and looked up quickly. He seemed surprised to find Don in his own home.

"You're back early," Charlie said. He pushed his hair off his forehead, eyeing Don from top to bottom.

"No, I'm back late," Don said.

Charlie blinked, and peered around for a clock Don didn't have. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Five after eleven," Don said. "Don't you think Dad might be worried?"

"Nah, he knows where I am."

Don stiffened, jaw clenching, and forced himself to relax. He walked to the fridge and took out a beer, popping the cap and taking a long swallow. Of course, Dad would know where Charlie was, and why should he care? He was with Don.

"So…how did work go today?"

Charlie's voice hesitated behind Don's back. He heard Charlie get off his bar stool, and walk around the counter, the slap of his bare feet against the carpet and then the linoleum of the kitchen. Don braced himself, but Charlie didn't touch him.

"Fine."

"Good, that's…good. Isn't it?"

If he turned around right now, Don knew what he would see. Charlie standing behind him, rubbing his hands, fingers intertwining against his stomach. His shoulders would be hunched underneath that thin, long-sleeved shirt. Hair in his eyes, and an uncertain mouth would complete the picture.

Don moved to stand over the sink. He clutched his beer tightly, condensation from the neck of the bottle beaded down his fingers. He looked in the empty basin. Charlie had forgotten to eat dinner again.

"You hungry?" he asked over his shoulder.

"No," Charlie said.

Don nodded to the wall, and drank his beer, drowning his taste buds in hops. He clicked his teeth around the neck of the bottle, and set it aside. Charlie was a fidgetting presence at his back.

"Don?"

It happened so fast. A rustle of fabric, the slap of feet against linoleum, and Charlie's hand was cupping the swell of Don's shoulder blade, right over the leather strap of his shoulder holster. Don clenched his hands along the metal rim of the sink, and breathed.

"You're wearing your gun again," Charlie said.

He let his head fall down, chin digging into his collar bone. Charlie pressed against his side, and a sick heat flowed through Don's body. His hand slid up and down Don's holster strap.

"That means they've agreed to let you work in the field again," Charlie said.

He choked back a laugh. "Yes! Yes, they're very happy with my work. I've got quite the career ahead of me."

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Charlie asked softly. "Back to work, back to…back to what you really want to do. Catching the bad guys, and all that."

Charlie's other arm slipped underneath Don's and around his chest, tugging him sideways. Don pushed in the opposite direction, breaking his brother's hold. He kept moving until his back collided with the fridge.

Charlie's jaw flexed. He spread his hands, palms outward, and took a step towards Don. He was skinny, and angular, and needed a new wardrobe like Don needed a haircut. His feet were bare, long toes catching on the linoleum.

Don swallowed, staring down at his brother's toes, and the arches of his feet. The way his jeans brushed against his ankles when he stepped forward. Don realized his mouth was open, his lips wet from his tongue. His cock stirred beneath his pants.

Slowly, Charlie took another step, and another until his palms were against Don's shoulders. He leaned forward, and touched the tip of his nose to Don's. Their eyes were inches apart. Their breath commingled.

"You're a good agent," he said. His voice shook. "And a good man. An amazing, smart, strong man who can survive anything. And you're a good brother."

Don tried to turn away, but Charlie followed him. He crushed Don's mouth in his haste, swallowing the crazed, broken moan Don couldn't keep contained. The pressure, the acid, in his gut tore at him, ripping through his body and the spot that burned the hottest was his mouth, where Charlie's lips met his own.

Finally, Charlie let go, breaking off to let him breath. Don lay his head against the cold metal of the fridge. His hands gripped the edges of the fridge door to either side.

"You're going back to work," Charlie said. "You're going to _save_ people, like Emily and her parents."

Don clenched his mouth shut, striving for breath through his nose. He was afraid to open his mouth, afraid of what he might say, what he might do. Charlie stood close enough for his senses to prickle, but only his hands were actually touching him. The need for his brother to move closer scraped across his skin.

Charlie's eyes unfocused over Don's shoulder. His hands kneaded the flesh underneath them. Don bucked at the touch.

The movement drew Charlie back to him, and Don found himself strangely grateful not to be alone. Resolve hardened his brother's face, strengthening the line of his jaw. He leaned forward and kissed him once, softly, on the lips. Then, Charlie kissed him again, biting into Don's lower lip and suckling briefly.

His mouth pressed against Don's chin, then along the ridge of stubble lining his jaw to his ear. He nuzzled behind Don's earlobe, and Don gasped, hips jerking away from fridge. Charlie licked the spot, dragging his tongue across the sensitive hollow, and blowing a stream of air over the wet patch. His lips reattached themselves, and he sucked hard.

Don's breath caught and tore loose from his body in a ragged groan. His hands gripped the edges of the fridge so tightly he thought he could hear them creaking under the strain. "I wish you'd stop," he said, writhing against the fridge as Charlie bit down his neck. "Oh, God, I wish you'd stop. Why can't I _stop_?"

Charlie ignored him, bent forward at an odd angle so that Don thrust his erection against nothing but air. The arch of his back begged to be caressed, but Don couldn't get his hands to move. Charlie kissed the point where Don's shirt opened at his throat, then across to press his lips against the leather holster strap.

"_No_."

His hand clamped down on the back of Charlie's head and tore him away. He shook Charlie's head, the stupid curls bouncing over his fingers, and glared. His body thrummed with energy, chaotic, and edged in dark red.

Charlie's eyes widened, his pupils dilated. His breath came faster as Don gripped his head.

"It's a part of you," Charlie said, and tangled one hand in the strap. "I can't ignore it."

"Yes. You. Can," Don said, emphasizing each word with a headshake.

Charlie frowned, and fisted the strap. His other hand scratched down Don's chest and hooked into his waistband. He yanked Don away from the fridge, and into him. Caught off guard, Don stumbled forward.

They crashed to the floor. Don just managing to twist them around so he was on the bottom, cushioning Charlie's frame. He whacked his head on the floor, and light flashed in front of his eyes.

"Damn it, Charlie!"

"Sorry! Sorry," Charlie mumbled. "Forgot Newton's ninth law."

He groaned, and Charlie squirmed on top of him, unbuttoning his shirt and licking his nipples. Don's hands stroked along Charlie's back, over the soft cotton and then underneath to feel the delicate knobs of Charlie's spine. At his touch, his brother arched into Don's chest.

The wet circle of his mouth crawled across Don's skin, sucking at one nipple and biting the other until Don could no longer feeling anything except the press of Charlie's hip against his cock, the luxury of Charlie's tongue as it descended on his stomach. Don's hands smoothed around Charlie's shoulders, drawing his shirt over his head. Charlie straddled him and rose, pushing his ass into Don's crotch. He stripped himself of his shirt and tossed it up to land on Don's jacket.

Pain briefly choked him, but Don drank in the sight. His brother, his brother made him feel this way, and Don couldn't stop it. Almost didn't want to stop it when Charlie ran his hands down his own chest and undid his jeans, then Don's slacks.

Charlie wore boxers, the plain blue boxers Dad had given him for his birthday. His cock, long and red peeked out from the slit in front, wet at the head. Charlie locked eyes with him, made sure Don was watching as he reached into his pants and drew out his cock.

Don whimpered, pushing up against Charlie's ass, rocking him forward. Charlie put a hand on the floor for balance, crouching over Don's head. He shuddered, and Don looked down to see Charlie stroking himself, fisting his cock over Don's stomach.

His mouth, wet and red, hung open over Don's. Don reached out with his tongue and laved Charlie's full bottom lip. Charlie cried out, and shuddered. His eyes squeezed shut.

Don wrapped dead arms around Charlie's back, pulling him down to the floor. This was pain, this was pleasure that sank its fangs into his throat and poured poison into his veins. He cradled the back of his brother's head, and pressed Charlie's face to his shoulder.

Charlie keened when Don lay his free hand on Charlie's lower back. His fingers curved along the rise of Charlie's ass, pressing deeply into the muscle. Don kept his eyes on the ceiling while his brother writhed on top of him. The head of Charlie's cock was slick on his stomach. Charlie thrust forward, throwing his whole body against Don's. His face smashed into Don's shoulder, and he felt more than heard the snarl as Charlie's teeth latched on to the holster strap.

He shook his head at the ceiling, biting his lip hard enough to bleed. Charlie continued to fuck his fist, and every thrust forced Don to grip Charlie's ass harder. The feel of his brother above him made Don feverish, until the blood sizzled in his mouth, and his cock ached like a wound. He panted in Charlie's ear, trying to draw breath that didn't seem to be there anymore.

Charlie's head jerked upwards, dragging the strap with him as he howled and came, spurting onto Don's stomach. Don held on to him when he collapsed back down, muttering to himself and nuzzling into Don's shoulder, the leather still clutched in his teeth.

Finally, it seemed like Charlie could breathe normally again. His muscles relaxed, flowed against Don's tense body in one agonizing wave. His hands patted down Don's sides, pulling down his pants and underwear, leaving him exposed. Charlie let go of the strap, and crawled down Don's body, hair tickling his sensitized skin. He stopped to kiss Don's navel, tongue dipping inside and lapping at his own come.

Don groaned, and tried to thrust upwards, but Charlie's hands suddenly held him down, spanning his hips. He looked up into Don's face, a grin lurking at the corners of his mouth. Don shook his head, and Charlie ducked down, shoulders hunching, body curling over Don's erection.

A light sheen of sweat covered his body. Don's hands opened and closed at his sides. Charlie opened his mouth, and slowly lowered his lips to fit around the head of Don's cock. The tip of Charlie's tongue swiped across the slit, and Don jerked helplessly, choking back a yell as he came.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: Slight spoilers for "Prime Suspect." Anyone else notice Don took the shot? (And if I'm wrong, for God's Sake, don't tell me. I've already written the story!)
> 
> Author's Note (the second): What I know about FBI procedure could fill a thimble, X-tra Small, so please be kind. All I know, I learned from the X-Files, feel blessed to find no little green men. Though Krycek wouldn't be unwelcome…


End file.
